Lisa Unger - Fragile

The only thing he knew for sure right now was that Charlene hadn’t written those status updates on Facebook. But what it meant, he didn’t know. Maybe someone had her against her will, was using the updates to keep people thinking she’d run away. Or maybe it was her new boyfriend, this guy Steve everyone was talking about. He could see her doing that, giving him her password, letting him write whatever he wanted, knowing that Rick alone would know it wasn’t her. Just rubbing it in. There was the anger, too. It lived beneath the surface of all the other emotions, pacing its cage. She uses people. She used you . It was true, what Britney had said. He knew that.

He shut the engine and walked into the house, through the laundry room and straight to the refrigerator. His early acceptance letters stared at him. That he’d applied to colleges at all had been the final nail in the coffin with Charlene. “You’re a good boy. You’ll go to school and be a doctor like your mom, help people. That’s you. You should be proud of that.”

But he wasn’t proud. He wanted to be bad, like whoever it was she’d gone off into the city to be with, if that was what she’d done. He took a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator, drank from it, and put it back, slamming the door. The letters and the magnets that held them fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Are you even going to go?”

Rick jumped with a jolt of fear that felt like an electric shock. His father was sitting in the dark dining room, a looming black shadow at the table.

“Go where?” he managed. “Christ, Dad. You scared the crap out of me.”

“To college.”

Great, the old college conversation. Perfect time to discuss it. “I don’t know,” he said.

He expected some sarcastic comment or light insult. But instead his father said, “You have to go, Rick. Don’t stay in this town your whole life like me.”

Rick snorted his disdain. “I wouldn’t.” He hadn’t meant it as an insult to his father, but that was what it was. He felt like he should say something to soften it, but then he didn’t, he just leaned over and picked up the letters and magnets, placed them on the counter by the phone. His father didn’t say anything, either. Rick walked into the dining room and turned on the light. He sat down at the table.

“What’s happening with Charlene? Where did you go during the meeting?”

“We’re searching the residence,” his father said. “I got a call.”

“What did you find?” Rick felt a lump of dread in his belly. His father looked strange-tired, sad around the eyes. He wanted to say, Are you okay, Dad? But there was, as ever, a glass wall between them through which nothing soft or tender could pass. Only angry or loud words, heavy things thrown with force, could shatter it.

When he was very young, Rick used to slip into bed with his father. His mother often slept elsewhere-on the couch or in the guest room across the hall from his room. He was too young to wonder why then. But when he heard her move softly down the stairs or quietly close the door, he’d wait a bit, then pad down the hall and slide in beside his dad. His father’s breathing would be even and deep. Rick would try to match his breath to his father’s, but he could never quite do it.

“We found blood, Rick.”

“Blood?” Rick felt his hands start to tingle.

“Melody claims that she and Graham had a fight last night and that she hit him with a baseball bat in self-defense. She claims he left, saying he wouldn’t come back. Afterward, Charlene and she fought about that cell phone. Turns out Graham got her that phone. Melody says she found the bill; that’s why she and Graham fought.”

“I thought Mrs. Murray said last night that she didn’t know about the phone.”

“She lied.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, she claimed that she took the phone from Charlene. That’s why they fought. That’s why Charlene left. Melody claims she smashed it, threw it in the trash that was picked up this morning.”

“That’s why no one’s been able to reach Charlene,” said Rick.

His father nodded. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“There’s a witness who saw Charlene-or someone matching her description-climb into what’s described as a big green muscle car last night and drive off.”

“Where?”

“Persimmon and Hydrangea, around eleven thirty.”

“It wasn’t me.”

His father kept hard eyes on him. “Ricky,” he said, finally. “I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth.”

“Dad. I was here, sleeping. You know that.”

His father shrugged. “I went to bed at nine; I was beat. I didn’t wake up until Melody came knocking.”

The strangeness in his father’s expression had deepened. He looked haunted and afraid. The look was contagious. Rick started to feel edgy, guilty, as though his father was seeing something within him that he didn’t know was there.

“The car wakes you up when I come and go.”

“Not always.”

The grandfather clock marked the quarter hour, and Rick heard the refrigerator start to run, making ice cubes. He stared at the facets of the stained-glass lamp that hung over the dining room table. When he was a boy, he’d thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world, the way the colors glowed in the light. Lately, it just looked old and tacky.

“Dad. What are you asking me?”

“I need you to tell me what happened last night.”

“I did tell you. There’s nothing more to say.”

They both fell silent as the front door opened and closed. Rick felt nearly weak with relief to hear his mother’s voice.

“What’s going on?” she said. She came into the dining room, shed her coat, and draped it over a chair.

Jones told Maggie everything he’d told Rick. As his dad spoke, his mother sat in the chair beside him. Rick saw it, triumphantly, as a taking of sides. Normally, Jones would sit at the head of table with Maggie in the chair to his right and Rick in the chair to his left. Head of the table, man of the house, Rick would always think mockingly. But now his father sat across from them. His mom put her hand on Rick’s leg.

“There are a lot of cars like that around, Jones,” she said. “The boys around here like those old GTOs and Mustangs. I saw an old Chevy the other day. It’s a trend.”

“It’s quite a coincidence, though, don’t you think?”

There was that tone, that smug, condescending tone that Rick hated more than anything. The one that said: I’m smarter than you. I’m better than you. I know more than you’ll ever know .

His mom didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked down at the table. Then, “If you want to ask him something, why don’t you just ask him?”

His dad said, “Did you pick Charlene up on Persimmon last night?”

“No. I didn’t. I was here sleeping. I fell asleep trying to call her after she stood me up. I have told you this a hundred times. Why don’t you believe me?”

But his father didn’t believe him. Rick could see it in the set of his mouth, in the narrowing of his eyes.

“I’m telling you the truth,” he said. He got up from the table, pushed the chair back with more force than he intended. It scraped loudly on the floor. The crystal glasses in the china cabinet sang.

“Ricky,” said his mother, grabbing hold of his hand.

“Right now, I can help you, Rick,” his father said. He leaned forward across the table. There was an urgency in his voice that Rick didn’t understand. And for a moment, he thought he saw his father’s eyes fill. “If this thing goes any further, there’s nothing I can do.”

What did he mean by that? What did he think? Did he think Rick had done something to Charlene? He didn’t trust his voice to ask the questions, and a part of him didn’t want the answers. Instead, with his parents’ rising voices crashing behind him like a wave, he got up and left them.